Living History

Since the minute this awful pandemic began making headway in the NYC area, I've heard people encourage me to journal; to make or take notes, to save the headlines, to encourage my son (now 6) to doodle, draw, or journal about the history we are quite literally living through right now.
Hate to tell you: it doesn't work that way.
Perhaps it does for some. I'm sure there are writers all curled up in their designated Book Nooks right now, creating great prose that will speak to an entire generation about their experience.
That's not me.
Thursday night, a member of the custodial staff at my husband's building died. My husband knew him and said he was a nice guy. Excepting the obvious (if he's been exposed, surely my husband has been...) I had a hard time with this information. It made the unreal real. It made me sad and angry in equal measure.
It made me break out the good wine the minute my son fell asleep.
There is so little we can do right now. The helpless feeling is the absolute worst part of this moment in time, the knowing that we don't know.
We don't know what's going to happen next.
We don't know when the kids are going to go back to school.
We don't know who has it/who doesn't/who's been infected/who has seasonal allergies but right now feels like a leper if they sneeze in a five mile radius of anyone.
I know: I've been washing my hands constantly.
I know: God is still in control.
I know: that I don't know a whole lot.
After all, I'm living history right now, and if I know one thing for sure it's that history always looks different in the rear view mirror.